


And You'll Miss It

by woodenducks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel in the Bunker, M/M, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8815654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodenducks/pseuds/woodenducks
Summary: He can feel the magic burning inside him, like a hot, red stone. It feels like heartburn, like heartache, and he struggles to breathe. 
Dean gets hit with a curse while on a hunt. While it takes, and takes, perhaps it also gives him clarity about some things, and someone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Jane, for the eyes.

They’ve been driving for hours, north across Kansas and into South Dakota, hunting some witch who’d gotten too big for her boots with some pretty heinous blood magic, wreaking havoc in Rapid City. Dean has a crick in his neck, and a light throb in his lower back that reminds him he’s getting too old to drive eight hours at a stretch. But he’s wired on rest-stop coffee and the adrenalin of a hunt, and he and Sam had decided to tear in to the warehouse anyway.

They find the witch in a back store room, bowls of blood and burning herbs, acrid smoke and the sharp tang of iron almost suffocating in the room. She turns to them, hisses, starting to chant an incantation.

In the couple of seconds Dean has between raising his gun, seeing the anger twist the witch’s mouth, and the searing burn of a spell right to the chest, he thought that perhaps it might have been wiser to wait and regroup.

Dean can see Sam take a shot, see the witch crumple, a deep red stain spreading across the front of her dress. From his prone position on the dusty warehouse floor, Dean watches Sam run towards him, concern contorting his face into something unholy.

He can feel the magic burning inside him, like a hot, red stone. It feels like heartburn, like heartache, and he struggles to breathe. Sam drops to one knee at Dean’s side.

“You okay, Dean?” he asks, breathless. “Did she hit you?”

Dean gasps, tries to nod. It’s like a ruby, a flame inside him, all sharp edges and pulsing burn. It pulses light to dark, swiftly, and Dean blinks against the ache. He blinks.

 

 

When Dean opens his eyes again, it’s to the sight of the ceiling of his room at the bunker, smooth and golden with the light of his bedside lamps. His copy of _Jitterbug Perfume_ is laying open across his chest, and there’s a tepid cup of coffee resting on the bedside table near his head.

He looks down. He’s fully dressed in the clothes he was pretty sure he wore on the hunt: red flannel, grey t-shirt, jeans. Even his workboots are still on.

He raises a hand to his chest, presses. It feels okay. It feels normal. He must have blacked out, that spell must have knocked him unconscious, and Sam had to drag his tragic, snoring ass back to the bunker.

Sitting up, his head swims slightly. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing until grey-green spots start to swell and burst behind his eyelids. He hauls himself to his feet and out the door, pulling it open with a creak, heading down towards the library, calling for his brother.

Sam’s where Dean expected to find him, head down over a spellbook. Cas sits beside him at the large table, poring over another volume. Dean leans against the doorway, and clears his throat.

Sam looks up, startled.

“Jesus, Dean! You’re awake.” Immense relief floods his face. “How are you feeling?”

Dean shrugs. “I’m okay. What did I get hit with?”

“We don’t know,” Sam says. “She was dead before she hit the ground, but not before whatever she threw at you got its hooks in.”

Dean rubs at his face. “How’d you get me home?”

“I carried your heavy ass to the car,” Sam says, looking back down at the books. “Drove fast, called Cas to start looking. But Dean, we don’t really even know what we’re looking at here.”

Dean looks over at where Cas is seated in a leather-backed chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie abandoned. He looks tired, even though he’s back to not sleeping again. He looks like he’s been reading all night. Cas is staring at Dean with concern and appraisal. His eyes are sad when he speaks.

“I’ve been reading, but blood magic is old, and complicated, and almost limitless. We don’t know what hit you, and we don’t know if it’s even still affecting you.”

Dean crosses to the empty chair next to Cas’s and flops down into it, pulling one of the nearest books over to him. He shuffles in his chair, his knee brushing against Cas’s under the table.

“Well, let’s see if we can’t make this go a bit faster with three sets of eyes. If I remember anything, hopefully that can help us narrow things down.”

He flips the book open, a thin film of dust clouding up from between the pages. He blinks to shield his eyes. He blinks.

 

 

Dean cracks his eyes open again, staring up at an unfamiliar popcorn ceiling, an unlit fluorescent bulb in an unflattering fixture overhead.

He sits up, on guard, reaching under his pillow automatically for the knife that should always be there.

He can hear a shower running. The surroundings slide into familiarity. He’s in a motel room, another crappy carbon copy of the ones he’s slept in a thousand times before. Neon light flickers into the window, bathing everything in an ugly soft red. A thin strip of yellow glow floods out from the gap at the bottom of the bathroom door.

He looks down at his body: red flannel, black t-shirt. His duffel is next to his bed. A shotgun is laid out on the small spindly-legged table across the room. He can see ammunition, equipment for salt rounds.

He hears the shower shut off, the sounds of someone shuffling around in the bathroom. The yellow light spills into the room proper and across the twin beds as the door opens, and Sam steps out in an accompanying cloud of steam.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re up. You conked out pretty early on us.”

“Us?” he asks.

“Yeah, Cas is just outside. He said he wants to secure the perimeter.” Sam’s shoving dirty clothes into a plastic bag next to his bed.

“…Right,” Dean says, trying to adjust, to remember. Failing. “Where the fuck are we, Sammy?”

Sam’s eyebrows draw together, he looks at Dean like he’s lost it.

“We’re just outside of Laramie.”

“Wyoming?” Dean has a feeling he’s coming across as insane.

“Yeah, Wyoming. What—hang on, what’s the last thing you remember?” Sam sits on the bed opposite Dean’s, too-long hair still wet.

Dean thinks back. “Bunker library. We were looking for some intel on whatever curse that witch threw at me.” He looks around the room, confused. “Why the fuck are we in Wyoming?”

Sam looks worried, his forehead creasing into that familiar twist of concern. “That was three days ago.”

Dean shrugs, but he’s worried. His chest hurts, he swears he can feel the edges of a burn in the back of his oesophagus. Heartburn, maybe.

Sam stares at him for a few more seconds; sighs, looks away. “We’re on a case. Salt and burn.”

Dean stares back, blank.

“You’ve really got nothing?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. “You figure out what this is yet?” he asks, but he already knows the answer.

“Get some sleep, Dean. We’ve got a witness lined up for the morning.” Sam stretches his legs out under the off-white motel sheets, reaches over and flicks off the lamp.

Dean can see Cas’s silhouette against the window. He’s not really sure what Cas is keeping an eye out for, but he’s glad that he’s there. He looks at the sharp lines of Cas’s profile, stark and dark against the sodium glow of the parking lot lights. He blinks against the glare. He blinks.

 

 

He wakes with a start. He’s back in the bunker, resting his head against the soft back of a an armchair in the library that’s been pulled up against the heavy table. Books are sprawled open on the table’s surface; spell books, lore collections. Cas is sitting across the table, looking rumpled. His face looks soft with concern and concentration. Dean takes in the disarray of his hair, the casual roll of his sleeves. Again, the suit jacket is nowhere to be seen.

“How long have I been out?”

Cas looks up at him. “You fell asleep about fifteen minutes ago,” he says.

“No, not asleep out. _Out_ out.”

“Oh,” says Cas, “you mean you’re—”

“Last time I remember,” Dean says, awake now, properly, “we were in Laramie on a salt and burn.

Cas stares. “We came back from Wyoming four days ago.”

“And what? What the fuck is going on?” Dean’s trying very hard not to freak out.

“And nothing,” says Cas. “We’ve been here. You’ve been here. We’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

 _What’s wrong with him_. God, Dean doesn’t even really know where to start with that one. There’s always something. Fucking cursed, fucking marked. He rubs his hand over his face, wants to dig his fingers into something and squeeze. He feels heat licking up the inside of his throat; feels sick with it.

He hears Cas stand up, hears his feet shuffling softly over the floor toward him. Cas’s hand settles, unsure, on Dean’s shoulder.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says. His thumb rubs small circles against the back of Dean’s neck. “You’re going to be okay.”

Dean’s face feels hot. He turns in his chair, swallows against the heat in his throat, reaches out softly to grab Cas’s shirt. He fights the urge to bury his face in the fabric. Cas’s other hand reaches down, fingers pressing under Dean’s chin, forcing his face up to meet his eyes. Dean doesn’t like the sadness he sees there.

Cas’s hand releases his chin, fingertips trailing up to brush lightly across Dean’s hairline. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.

His eyes flicker down to Dean’s mouth, which, yeah, Dean’s not gonna pretend he hasn’t seen happening before. He can’t though, he just…It’s Cas, he can’t fuck it up, can’t fuck _him_ up like that. He tries so hard not to lean in. He blinks against the warmth he sees in Cas’s eyes. He blinks.

 

 

Dean opens his eyes to the familiarity of his own room, lights dim and blankets pushed down around his waist. The glow of the alarm clock tells him that it’s late, so late that it’s become early again. He’s tired, and he reaches down to rub at his chest, a sharp burn digging into the space behind his ribs when he inhales.

“You’re back with us.”

He jolts at the sound of Cas’s voice, looking over to where he’s leaning against the bed head, feet bare and legs crossed at the ankle. He’s got an old-looking book cracked open in his lap; two more are stacked on the bedside table.

“How long?” Dean asks, clearing his dry throat. “We were back from Wyoming, we were—”

“Three days,” says Cas. “It’s Monday. Early.”

Three days. Okay. Three more days and they still don’t have an answer.

Dean fidgets, shuffles onto his side. He feels the smooth slip of the sheets over his bare legs.

“Hey,” he says, reaching for Cas’s leg, resting his hand against Cas’s thigh. “Hey, are you okay here?”

Cas looks down at Dean’s hand, down at Dean’s face, blue eyes searching. He closes the book softly. Reaches down and covers Dean’s hand with his own.

Dean’s chest is burning with every inhalation, so he tries to slow his breaths, make them shallow.

“Hey, just—c’mere,” he says, pulling Cas down to lie beside him. Their knees are touching through the blanket. Cas pillows his head on his bent arm. Dean slings his arm over Cas’s waist, rubs the fabric of Cas’s shirt between his fingers. “Is this okay?” he asks.

Cas smiles, small and a bit sad. He leans in, and Dean doesn’t stop him this time.

They kiss softly, but not chastely; Cas is almost painfully tender. Dean pulls him in tighter, presses their bodies together from chest to hips, lets his hand slide further to run up the broad planes of Cas’s back. He opens his mouth, kisses Cas deeper, feels Cas’s own hands press uncertainly against his chest, carefully pushing him onto his back as Cas leans over him. The burning in his chest is subsiding.

They pull apart, and Cas is moving down, pressing wet, open kisses to Dean’s jaw and throat. Cas is a warm weight above him, and Dean is torn between the heat starting to pool low in his stomach and the unexpected sting starting behind his eyes. He blinks as his vision starts to swim. He blinks.

 

 

The room spins when Dean opens his eyes; the familiar roll and pitch of too much whiskey. He squeezes his eyes shut against the nausea, rolling onto his side in an act of self-preservation. The surface below him is smooth leather. He cracks an eye: he’s sprawled over Baby’s back seat, fully dressed. His mouth feels furry and tastes like a hangover already.

Dean stares at the back side of the car’s front bench seat, eyes tracking the smooth stitching in the upholstery. He’s not sure how he got here, or even when he is. He doesn’t remember drinking, that’s for sure.

He hears the dull clunk of the car’s back door opening, feels the cool rush of air and inhales the smell of the bunker’s garage as it sweeps over his face. He twists his head and looks up to see Cas silhouetted in the soft lights of the garage.

“Move over,” Cas says, reaching down to nudge Dean’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to move. Moving seems too hard right now.

Cas sighs, leaning down and kneeling on the seat, shoving at Dean until he’s in a sitting position, head lolling against the back of the seat, shoulders slumped. Cas slides in next to him, but leaves the door open. The comparatively fresh air of the garage is starting to circulate, clearing some of the bourbon fug from the car.

Dean just wants to fall back asleep. He can feel bile rising in his throat, a burning in his chest.

“You shouldn’t sleep out here,” Cas says.

“What time is it?” Dean asks.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“No, not time. _Time_. What day is it?” Dean asks, impatient.

Cas looks at him curiously. “It’s Wednesday, Dean.”

Wednesday. Last time Dean was aware, it had been four o’clock on a Monday morning and he had been tangled around Cas, trying to keep from coming in his pants as he’d been kissed within an inch of his life.

“I could hear you thinking from inside,” Cas continues. “What’s the last thing you remember?” Cas looks like he’s steeling himself for the answer, bracing for impact.

“We were—” Dean doesn’t even really know how to start this one. He’s glad that he’s whiskey-flushed and half-asleep, looser than he would be able to achieve otherwise. “You know, Cas. We were in my bed, and we were—”

“Oh,” says Cas. Dean turns to look at him. Cas’s eyes are dark, inscrutable. “What exactly do you remember, Dean?”

Dean shrugs. This is just fucking embarrassing. He’s wanted Cas for longer than he’d like to admit, and that kiss had been really something. But that was two days ago, and he doesn’t know where they are now. He doesn’t know where they’ve been.

“You know, Cas,” he says, alcohol smoothing the way. “We were makin’ out.” He tries to be truculent, shield with bravado.

“And that’s all you remember?” Cas looks at him, and Dean can see concern in the crinkle of his brow.

He knows, now.

“Huh,” Dean says. “Well. Shit.”

“Dean, I—”

“Nope. No, it’s…it’s cool.” Dean just wants to be unconscious again, wants to be anywhere but here, trapped in the dark of the Impala’s back seat, what was so comforting before now smothering him. He needs fresh air. He needs to breathe. He feels suddenly awake, nauseous.

The thing, though, is that Dean’s been circling _something_ with Cas since forever, has felt the pull of him like a tide. He wants, he’s _wanted_ this, something like this, for fucking _years_. And now, when it’s here, when Cas is here, warm and solid and real, with hands that have gripped and held, he still doesn’t have it. Now that Dean knows what Cas’s mouth tastes like, knows how the rush of air from Cas’s sighs feel against his skin…and he _still_ doesn’t really know.

The pain in his chest is back, burning bright and hot and sharp.

He pushes open the door of the car, stumbles out onto the hard floor of the garage, the concrete cold and real through what he now notices are the socks shrugging off his bare feet. The lights are too bright, suddenly. Dean blinks against the glare. He blinks.

 

 

It’s warm, wherever he’s waking up. He’s presses his face further into the soft surface he’s resting on, feels arms tighten around his back. He cracks an eye; he’s leaning on Cas’s chest, head tucked under Cas’s chin. He can feel where there’s something suspiciously like drool sticking the side of his cheek to Cas’s skin. Cas’s fingers are strong and soft where they press gently into his sides, fitting between his ribs, squeezing lightly.

“You’re awake,” Cas says, his voice a steady rumble vibrating in Dean’s ear.

The fog shifts from Dean’s head a little. He looks down, relieved to see he’s still wearing pants.

“Did we…?” he asks.

He feels Cas swallow. “No, Dean. Not when you—no.”

Dean lets his eyes slide closed again. He can’t think about this right now, can’t think about what he’s missed, what he’s wanted but can’t remember even having. It’s Cas, Cas is here and somehow his, but under the worst circumstances, and it _hurts_.

“When’s it gonna stop?” he whispers.

Cas sighs, wraps his arms tighter around Dean, pulls him closer to his chest. He feels Cas drop a soft kiss onto the top of his head.

“We’ll find a way,” Cas says.

Dean’s getting tired of looking. He’s tired of not finding an answer, more to the point. This helplessness is worse than anything else. There’s not often something he can’t fight his way out of. He wants to run.

He feels the first tendrils of the burning in his chest start to spread through his chest. He imagines them as fingers, hot and glowing dull like embers, reaching through his sternum and around his lungs.

Cas strokes a hand down the length of Dean’s spine, and the heat abates a little. It’s still there, though. Constant, like a dull throb.

Dean pushes up onto one elbow, looks down at Cas lying back among the pillows. He recognises now that they’re in Cas’s room. The clock says 11.32 – he’s not sure if it’s night or morning.

Cas’s gaze is soft, not scrutinising, not searching. Cas reaches up with one hand, runs a thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, strokes his fingers gently over Dean’s eyebrow. Dean blinks against kindness, the shame. He blinks.

 

 

It’s 6.45am, a more decent hour this time, when Dean slides his eyes open and turns his head to the glare of an unfamiliar alarm clock. He sighs, taking in his surroundings. Motel room: aging floral bedspread, cigarette burn in the carpet, notes spread over the kitchenette bench.

Sam’s nowhere to be seen, nor is Cas. Dean digs around for his phone, sees the missed calls. Three voicemail messages. He jabs blearily at the buttons, setting the first one to play.

“Dean, this is really not smart.” Sam’s voice comes ringing down the line. “I don’t know where you are, but we’re going to come and find you. Please be safe, we’ll figure this out—”

Dean grunts and hits the button to delete the message. He’s tired of trying to _figure it out_. What if it can’t be _figured out_? Something is taking time from him, and he’s scared. He knows; he’s running.

The burning in his chest is back, hot like a knife along the line of his sternum.

He’s scared.

He gets up, hunting for the motel keys. He finds them thrown carelessly on the floor by the front door. The tag tells him that he’s at a Motel 6 in Wichita. He didn’t drive far.

Dean sits heavily on the side of the bed again. He doesn’t know how he got here. He doesn’t know why he left, but he has a pretty good idea. He stares down at his phone, the message box with its unread notifications. Messages from Cas.

_I’ll come and get you, please just wait where you are._

_Dean, come home._

_I need you here._

Dean’s finger hovers over the delete icon next to the messages. He doesn’t know why, but this hurts, and he can feel the pain in his chest start to crawl up the back of his throat.

His phone rings in his hand, the vibrations jolting him. He narrows his eyes against the screen’s glare. _Cas_. He has to get back to Cas. Despite how fucked up this situation seems to have gotten, Cas is safe, and home, and a thousand other things that Dean doesn't want to think about right now.

He gets up, starts stuffing clothes back into his duffle, hurries to fold up the papers and remnants of research he’s left sprawled over the motel room. He should just leave it, it’d be faster. He needs to get back.

The burning in his chest gets worse, deeper as he pulls the door shut behind him, heading out to the Impala. He can feel it in his arms now, starting to make his fingertips twitch. It’s too hot, too much. He jams the key in the ignition, pulls Baby out of the lot with a screech of tires. He heads back the way he assumes he came, back home.

Dean feels like he’s dying again. He doesn’t want to die. The road is twisting, but he’s not sure if it’s the turn of the terrain or vertigo. His panic rises as the burn gets brighter, hotter, threatening to burst itself out of his chest. The road turns sharply, and Dean pulls the wheel to the right, hard. He blinks against the impact. He blinks.

 

 

Dean opens his eyes to the wreck of the Impala, her roof caved in around him. There’s blood stinging his eyes, running down from a gash on his forehead. He blinks back through the red. He blinks.

 

 

Dean opens his eyes briefly in what looks like the back of the Continental. He sees the back of Sam’s head in the driver’s seat, can feel warm hands against his chest. He looks up into Cas’s face, sees him look panicked, angry.

“Hold on, Dean. We’ve got it,” he says. “We’ve got you. Please, hold on.”

The streetlights are flickering past the windows, making him dizzy. Dean’s eyes flicker closed.

 

 

He comes to on the kitchen table in the bunker, and everything hurts. He’s pretty sure that’s his blood he can see dripping onto the floor. He can’t move his left leg, and a panicked glance down shows him ripped jeans and what looks horribly like a bone shoved through the skin of his shin.

But Cas is there. Cas is leaning over him, chanting in what sounds like Enochian. Dean feels the heat in his chest spasm, flash. Cas keeps muttering, sleeves rolled up, reaching one hand over Dean’s chest, and then Dean cries out as Cas pushes his hand _in_ , fingers shifting down and through and into Dean’s chest cavity. Dean can feel his fingers groping, gripping.

Cas keeps murmuring, and Dean feels his fingers clench, tighten around something deep beneath his rib cage. He’s barely conscious as Cas pulls, tears something out through his flesh. He feels the heat grasp out at him, flaring hot and searing. Cas tugs, and it slides free.

The curse is hideous: a red, scaly thing, all skittering legs and sharp hooks. _It’s been feeding_ , Dean thinks in horror. It looks engorged and pulsing, painful and gruesome like a blood clot. Cas grips it tight, his eyes flashing bright white. The thing in his hand squeals, whistles in pain like the sound of a kettle steaming in urgency. Then it is silent, still, smoking slightly, turning to ash that slides through Cas’s fingers and onto the floor.

Dean’s eyes roll back in his head. And everything is dark.

 

 

When Dean wakes up, he’s in his own bed. He reaches a hand down to his chest – nothing. The skin is unmarked.

“You should heal fine, Dean.”

He looks over to see Cas sitting rigidly in on of the kitchen chairs that’s been dragged in and set up next to the bed. He looks exhausted, head down, meditative.

“What was that thing?” Dean asks.

Cas looks up at him. “A parasite. A curse. Feeding on your time, your memories.”

Dean closes his eyes, presses his head back into the pillows.

“How much did it take from me?” he asks.

Cas’s answer is quiet. “It’s been six weeks since that witch in Rapid City,” he says. “We tried, Dean. We—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “It’s gone.”

Six weeks. Six weeks with only a handful of moments left in his head.

And Cas. _Cas._

“C’mere,” Dean says, shuffling over on the mattress. Cas looks uncertain, but gets up anyway, crossing softly to the bed. He pulls back the sheets, slides in next to Dean. He lies on his back, still, unsure, until Dean sighs, wraps his hand in Cas’s shirt, pulls him onto his side, closer. Dean slides his foot between Cas’s ankles. Cas tentatively reaches over and splays a hand across Dean’s lower back, anchoring him.

“Thank you,” Dean says.

Cas doesn’t reply, but Dean can feel a nervous twitch of his fingers.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says.

“What for?”

“For not getting it faster,” Cas says quietly. “If we’d known, if I’d tried harder—”

Dean kisses him to silence, just a soft press of his lips against Cas’s dry ones.

“You got it, though,” he says, pulling back. He leans in, kisses Cas again.

Cas breaks away. “But what it took from you—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean says, even though knowing he has memories of _this_ , memories of _Cas_ , being with Cas, that he won’t get back…hurts. “Now I get to do all this again for the first time.”

It makes Dean nervous, getting what he wants. Having Cas whole and here and unharmed. He licks his lips, shuffles closer to Cas across the mattress. Cas tightens his arm around Dean’s waist. Dean slots their legs together more tightly. He leans in, and Cas’s mouth is soft and warm and inviting. It’s a comfort, and Dean feels a flood of relief at the absence of heat in his chest. He feels warm, but it’s different; it’s softer and rounder and a good thing. Cas’s hand slides up to gently cup the back of his head. He can do this.

He remembers this.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and visit me on [Tumblr](http://bsc-trash.tumblr.com/), where I mostly just reblog SPN gifs and post smutty drabbles.


End file.
